Today, I am sad…
I am sad, not for myself; well, kind of for myself, but for myself only in a collateral way.
Let me get to the point: today I discovered that the man with the SINGLE GREATEST TOUPEE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD was let go from my company.
He was a genial fellow, he seemed smart and hard-working, but for whatever reason, he haunts our hallways no more.
The greatest thing about his hairpiece was the way it revealed his innermost self. It was a sort of dirty blonde, hardly uncommon among Americans, and it sort of swept across the crown of his head in the “parted on the side” generic short haircut favored by men throughout the world.
The problem was, his natural hair had become closer and closer to dirty gray than dirty blonde, and the mismatch between the two colors and textures made his toupee pop off his head and into your visual field as if it were a live squirrel. I often found myself making unnecessary trips to the printer just to circle around an area I had seen him standing in, sneaking glance after glance, but never getting any closer to an understanding of how, exactly, this man’s toupee fit into his view of himself, and by extension, the world.
So let’s be sad, for this man who lost his job, but also for the rest of us who are deprived of the surreal magic that his hairpiece sprinkled around our mundane hallways like unicorn elf-pixie happy dust.
12.31.2007
12.29.2007
A Belated Halloween Story
Lewis checked over his shoulder again, for no real reason, because they were still there, they were always still there. Whether it was his smell, or the desperate sounds of his flight through the scrub mesquite and juniper trees, something kept them right on top of him, even on a moonless night like this one.
He had long ago run out of shotgun shells, and had battered the old piece of lumber from behind his house into splinters. It was only habit that led him forward at this point, habit and the constant amping of adrenaline, forward over yet another cedar privacy fence and RIGHT INTO THE MIDDLE OF THREE OR FOUR OF THEM, JESUS CHRIST, THERE’S TOO MANY, there’s too many…
He could feel his cheeks being savaged as the zombies pinned him to the ground and began their clumsy brain-ectomy, then suddenly everything was bright light and silence. His hand flew to his face and found it the dead cold numb of zombie flesh; he tried to cry out as he rose from the dissection table and his senseless tongue turned his speech into the familiar garbled moan of the undead. He staggered free of the table, actually it was a chair, it seemed, and wheeled to face the door, where he was confronted by a strangely familiar female face, almost comforting behind the surgical mask.
“Now, Lewis, just give the novocaine another minute or two to work, and we’ll get started.” His eyes followed her blankly across the room. “I’ve seen some pretty relaxed people about dental procedures, but I think you’re the first to ever fall asleep in the chair on me. I wondered if you were even going to wake up during the shots in your mouth!”
Lewis palmed the dental hook he had instinctively grabbed from the instrument tray and nodded calmly. He’d play along with her little game…for now. But a time would come when her guard would slip, if only slightly; and then her sweet, sweet brain would be his, at last.
He had long ago run out of shotgun shells, and had battered the old piece of lumber from behind his house into splinters. It was only habit that led him forward at this point, habit and the constant amping of adrenaline, forward over yet another cedar privacy fence and RIGHT INTO THE MIDDLE OF THREE OR FOUR OF THEM, JESUS CHRIST, THERE’S TOO MANY, there’s too many…
He could feel his cheeks being savaged as the zombies pinned him to the ground and began their clumsy brain-ectomy, then suddenly everything was bright light and silence. His hand flew to his face and found it the dead cold numb of zombie flesh; he tried to cry out as he rose from the dissection table and his senseless tongue turned his speech into the familiar garbled moan of the undead. He staggered free of the table, actually it was a chair, it seemed, and wheeled to face the door, where he was confronted by a strangely familiar female face, almost comforting behind the surgical mask.
“Now, Lewis, just give the novocaine another minute or two to work, and we’ll get started.” His eyes followed her blankly across the room. “I’ve seen some pretty relaxed people about dental procedures, but I think you’re the first to ever fall asleep in the chair on me. I wondered if you were even going to wake up during the shots in your mouth!”
Lewis palmed the dental hook he had instinctively grabbed from the instrument tray and nodded calmly. He’d play along with her little game…for now. But a time would come when her guard would slip, if only slightly; and then her sweet, sweet brain would be his, at last.
12.28.2007
All's Welles that Ends Well
It had been a dog's age since Joseph Whitman had woke up in the morning still drunk from the night before. Most days, he was out early gathering eggs, feeding the hogs, and working in the orchard. His father, Eli, had poured 51 years of sweat into the dirt here, and Joseph figured to work the land until he dropped dead, too. He didn't have a son to carry on with the peaches after he passed, but he figured that he could sell someday to the Carters down the road, and they'd let him stay on the homestead and work as long as he was able to.
Today, though, was his birthday, and it was Sunday to boot. He was still spending what he figured was surplus money from this year's bumper crop, so he'd been standing drinks for men from all over White Bird last night, accepting their thanks along with their tales of hardship. Things weren't much better in White Bird than in the rest of Idaho, and only a little better than the rest of the country, from what the papers were saying. 1938 had been one more tough year in a string of them, for most folks, and things didn't appear to be looking up any time soon.
So Joseph had spent most of the day asleep, aside from an hour or so down at the creek soaking his aching head. In these final days of October, even the indian summer they were enjoying couldn't keep the creek from becoming too cold to swim in, but the rushing water numbed his throbbing head as well as anything he could think of.
He had been seriously thinking about climbing back into bed for the night for some time when he heard his telephone ring.
"Hello?"
"This is the operator speaking, is this Joseph Whitman?"
"Yes, it is."
"Sir, I have a Mrs. Whitman on the line with a long distance call. Mrs. Whitman, your party is on the line."
"Joseph, are you there?"
Joseph had remembered his birthday as soon as his mother's name was announced, but there was too much strain in her voice for this to be a social call.
"Mother, are you alright?"
"Joseph, I've been listening to the radio broadcast tonight, and I can't make any sense of it! These people, they say that they are from Mars..."
"From where?"
"From Mars, Joseph, the planet, and they've come down in spaceships that look like lightning, and they have been attacking people in upstate New York."
"They said this on the radio?"
"Yes, Joseph, an announcer came on while I was listening to the music, and at first they were saying that there were some storms, but now the man said that they have heat rays and that there have been people killed!"
"Well, what are we supposed to do? Do they want people to go outside, or stay inside? Are they going to build up the army to fight them?"
"I don't know, dear, I just know how much it rains out there, and I didn't want you to see some lightning and just think that it was going to rain! If you see lightning, son, just get out of there...drive up to Grangeville or Lewiston and find some people who are organized, maybe the county sheriff."
Joseph paused for a moment. He'd never met a member of law enforcement that he'd trust to know the right end of a hog to brand, and the thought of abandoning his family homestead...
"Alright, mother, don't you worry none. I'll get up to Lewiston first thing in the morning and find out what's what. You stay put where you are, you hear?"
"Your aunt Martha and I are not going anywhere, Joseph, believe me. You be careful, and you get up there to Lewiston and get some help...don't try to fight against those heat rays!"
"Alright, mother, good night..."
Joseph rang off and stood for a moment, lost in thought. He then turned and walked across the room to the gun rack above the sideboard, bringing down his shotgun. He grabbed a box of shells from the mantle and his heavy coat from the tree in the foyer. He was outside on the stump in the sideyard, shotgun loaded, eyes scanning the horizon in about three shakes of a lamb's tail.
He wasn't much given to thought, but his thoughts now ran to a man's place in the world, and what that meant when somebody came to take that place away from you, or someone you loved.
"I've been on this land for 38 years, and it's no point in running now, I guess. If folks from Mars are in need of peach-growing land, I'll be here to have my say about it, anyway..."
He wasn't sure if he'd been talking out loud, but it wouldn't much have mattered. The only answer was the swishing of leaves in his trees, and his vigil stretched out unbroken late into the evening, disturbed only slightly by the cold wave of fear that gripped him each time he caught sight of a shooting star.
Today, though, was his birthday, and it was Sunday to boot. He was still spending what he figured was surplus money from this year's bumper crop, so he'd been standing drinks for men from all over White Bird last night, accepting their thanks along with their tales of hardship. Things weren't much better in White Bird than in the rest of Idaho, and only a little better than the rest of the country, from what the papers were saying. 1938 had been one more tough year in a string of them, for most folks, and things didn't appear to be looking up any time soon.
So Joseph had spent most of the day asleep, aside from an hour or so down at the creek soaking his aching head. In these final days of October, even the indian summer they were enjoying couldn't keep the creek from becoming too cold to swim in, but the rushing water numbed his throbbing head as well as anything he could think of.
He had been seriously thinking about climbing back into bed for the night for some time when he heard his telephone ring.
"Hello?"
"This is the operator speaking, is this Joseph Whitman?"
"Yes, it is."
"Sir, I have a Mrs. Whitman on the line with a long distance call. Mrs. Whitman, your party is on the line."
"Joseph, are you there?"
Joseph had remembered his birthday as soon as his mother's name was announced, but there was too much strain in her voice for this to be a social call.
"Mother, are you alright?"
"Joseph, I've been listening to the radio broadcast tonight, and I can't make any sense of it! These people, they say that they are from Mars..."
"From where?"
"From Mars, Joseph, the planet, and they've come down in spaceships that look like lightning, and they have been attacking people in upstate New York."
"They said this on the radio?"
"Yes, Joseph, an announcer came on while I was listening to the music, and at first they were saying that there were some storms, but now the man said that they have heat rays and that there have been people killed!"
"Well, what are we supposed to do? Do they want people to go outside, or stay inside? Are they going to build up the army to fight them?"
"I don't know, dear, I just know how much it rains out there, and I didn't want you to see some lightning and just think that it was going to rain! If you see lightning, son, just get out of there...drive up to Grangeville or Lewiston and find some people who are organized, maybe the county sheriff."
Joseph paused for a moment. He'd never met a member of law enforcement that he'd trust to know the right end of a hog to brand, and the thought of abandoning his family homestead...
"Alright, mother, don't you worry none. I'll get up to Lewiston first thing in the morning and find out what's what. You stay put where you are, you hear?"
"Your aunt Martha and I are not going anywhere, Joseph, believe me. You be careful, and you get up there to Lewiston and get some help...don't try to fight against those heat rays!"
"Alright, mother, good night..."
Joseph rang off and stood for a moment, lost in thought. He then turned and walked across the room to the gun rack above the sideboard, bringing down his shotgun. He grabbed a box of shells from the mantle and his heavy coat from the tree in the foyer. He was outside on the stump in the sideyard, shotgun loaded, eyes scanning the horizon in about three shakes of a lamb's tail.
He wasn't much given to thought, but his thoughts now ran to a man's place in the world, and what that meant when somebody came to take that place away from you, or someone you loved.
"I've been on this land for 38 years, and it's no point in running now, I guess. If folks from Mars are in need of peach-growing land, I'll be here to have my say about it, anyway..."
He wasn't sure if he'd been talking out loud, but it wouldn't much have mattered. The only answer was the swishing of leaves in his trees, and his vigil stretched out unbroken late into the evening, disturbed only slightly by the cold wave of fear that gripped him each time he caught sight of a shooting star.
12.21.2007
In case you need help next year deciding...
whether or not to play fantasy football again, peep this handy reference diagram:
12.20.2007
FIRST!!!!!!!1!!1!1!
Nothing is as intimidating as a blank page, or canvas, or website, except maybe an elephant or rhinoceros, and I’m talking about in person, not on the Discovery Channel, even with HD. So this is my way of getting off the schneid, getting the ball rolling, etc.
So, welcome to Spencer and Stacey’s web collection of junk. Enjoy!
So, welcome to Spencer and Stacey’s web collection of junk. Enjoy!
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